Fractured Eden Page 11

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Aaron sipped his wine. “What kind of dog do you have?”

  “A black Labrador retriever. I just got him a few years ago. He’s three years old.”

  Aaron had bread and a bowl of chicken noodle soup with his wine. Red was quiet for several minutes.

  Aaron turned to him. “Is everything okay?”

  “I got a letter from the widow of a friend of mine. He died a few weeks ago. We served together in the war.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Red nursed his snifter of brandy. “I haven’t thought about the war in a while.”

  “Which war?”

  “The Second World War.”

  “Which branch were you in?”

  “Navy, Pacific Theater.”

  “That must have been an interesting experience.”

  “Well, I’m glad I did it. I learned a lot about battleships, and war.”

  Aaron stared at his wine glass. “World War Two sure turned this country around.”

  “We had a lot of pride. You could feel it. The day after Pearl Harbor, lines at recruiting stations went on for blocks.”

  “Did you see combat?”

  “I sure did. My ship got hit by a kamikaze once, starboard side. Killed a lot of good men.” He sighed and looked down. “We shoveled bodies and arms and legs overboard. There was blood everywhere on deck.”

  Aaron sat in silence, but Red said no more. After a few minutes, Red swallowed the last of his brandy and looked at his pocket watch. He turned to Aaron. “It was nice talking with you.”

  Aaron stayed alone at the bar for a short while and finished his wine. As he walked out of the bar, he didn’t notice the man who stood up from a nearby booth to follow him.

  On his way home, Aaron thought about his discussion with Red and paid little attention to the rearview mirror. As he drove into his garage, the street behind him lit up. That must be the car headlights of one of my neighbors.

  At his office desk, Aaron turned on the laptop computer and began to scan email titles. He opened the first message, which was a medical information update from his Family Practice Society.

  He read from the top story: “Is there evidence-based research to support the medical use of marijuana? If so, what are the indications and what dose—”?

  “Yikes.” He lurched back as someone pounded on the front door.

  Aaron’s heart raced as he ran to the door, switched on the porch light, and peered through the peephole. No one was outside. He pushed the door open and walked out, scanning the yard and street and nearby trees. He spotted nothing out of the ordinary—no movement—and the only sound he heard was his own rapid breathing.

  He turned around and then froze with his hand on the front doorknob. A piece of paper was taped to the door. Aaron peeled it off and read the message: “You won’t know when or where, but I will get my revenge.”

  Aaron slammed and locked the front door and checked all doors and windows in the house, then punched buttons to arm the alarm system.

  He stared at the message again and shook his head. “This time, asshole, I’m not going down without a fight, even if it kills me.”

  He called Constable Greevy and recounted the whole machete story. Keller said he’d put out an APB.

  Aaron sat up in bed for several hours listening for any unusual noises, until he faded off to sleep.

  Chapter 19

  Later that evening at the Benningham mansion, a peal from the front doorbell surprised Brad. Myra hurried to the door, switched on the outside light, and looked through the peephole.

  “It’s Rocky Donnigan,” she said to Brad. “I wonder what he wants.” She opened the door.

  “Is Mr. Benningham home?” Rocky said.

  Brad walked to the door. “Is anything wrong?” he said.

  “I need you to come. Preston is out cold.”

  “I thought he was out with friends,” Myra said to Brad, who wheeled around and ran to the garage.

  Rocky climbed into Brad’s truck and directed him for several miles to a downtown alley.

  Brad parked at the curb, and Rocky hopped out of the truck. “He’s right over here.”

  Brad spotted a person on the ground. He kneeled down by the body and heard slow deep breathing. “It’s Preston.” He shook his shoulders. “Preston,” he said into his ear. Preston moaned.

  Brad picked up his son and carried him to the truck. Rocky brushed the dirt off Preston’s clothes and then climbed into the front seat. Brad laid Preston in the seat, propped against Rocky. Preston dozed as Brad drove back to his house and stopped near the front door.

  “Thanks, Rocky,” Brad said as he gathered Preston in his arms.

  “I hope he’s okay,” Rocky said.

  “Have you been watching him?”

  Rocky sighed. “Yeah. I guess I just want to help him any way I can. My son would’ve been about his age.”

  Brad watched Rocky ride away on his bicycle, then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Damn drugs. I don’t know if anything will work.”

  He carried Preston into the house and laid him on the living room couch. “Is he all right?” Myra said.

  “I think so, for now. We’ll see. He’s not hurt as far as I can tell.”

  Myra put her hand on Brad’s shoulder.

  Brad slammed his fist against the palm of his hand. “We’re running out of options.”

  Myra kneeled down in front of the couch and stroked Preston’s forehead. “At least he’s still with us.”

  Brad sighed and sat down by Preston. “Rocky tries to help him.”

  “We’re lucky Rocky was there.”

  Brad looked at Myra. “Didn’t something happen to Rocky’s son? I seem to remember a story about that.”

  “I heard Rocky was involved with his death somehow,” Myra said.

  Three hours later, Preston stirred on the couch.

  “Are you awake?” Brad said.

  Preston opened his eyes, yawned, and sat up. He looked around the room and then at Brad.

  “You came for me?”

  Brad nodded.

  Preston looked down, and his voice broke. “I’m sorry.”

  Myra hugged him. Preston couldn’t stifle several sobs.

  Chapter 20

  Deep in the forest several miles away, a bonfire raged in a clearing in the trees. A large crowd of girls and guys milled about near the fire, helping themselves to free and plentiful beer from kegs scattered about on pickup truck beds. A speaker in one of the trucks blared country music, and dancing broke out at times in the crowd.

  “There’s Buck,” someone yelled.

  A sleek hot rod with a flame paint job motored through the parting crowd and past the area where the pickup trucks were parked. A pair of cattle longhorns was perched on the front of the hood, and the car seats were lined with brown fur. Buck Bogarty stopped the car just short of the trees, swung the door open, and stepped out. A crowd of people collected around him. Flickering light from the bonfire reflected in his face as his eyes panned over the crowd.

  “Don’t touch the car,” a man said to a girl.

  “When are you gonna race this hot rod again?” someone said.

  “Yeah. I’d like to see you race again,” another man said.

  A girl brought Buck a cup of beer, and he nodded at her as he took it. Several bandages were stuck to his left hand.

  “I remember the days when you were riding broncs in the rodeo,” a man said from the back of the crowd. “When are you riding again? You were one of the best around here.”

  “One of the best?” Buck gulped down half a cupful of beer.

  Waving his hands in front of him, the man laughed. “No, no, I meant the best.”

  Someone cranked up the music and more people gyrated to the beat. A line dance formed, boots were kicking in the air, and a lot of beer was spilt. At one point, a conga line snaked around the bonfire. Several people wobbled and fell out of line on the ground, to th
e delight of those nearby. One man in line pointed at a laughing figure rolling in the grass. “Look. Jake’s down again. He never can hold his beer.”

  After several hours, the music softened. Much of the crowd was still close to the waning bonfire, some folks standing or propped against one another but many asleep on blankets on the ground.

  Buck stood alone, leaning against his hot rod, sipping beer and studying the crowd.

  He frowned and shook his head, walked to the edge of the trees and flung his half-empty cup of beer into the woods. He was alone here and out of sight of the crowd. Braced against a tree, his head dropped and he rubbed his eyes.

  He stood by the tree for hours, lost in thought, facing away from the dying embers of the bonfire, until the faint light of dawn. At times, he heard moaning from deep within the Big Thicket.

  “Buck?”

  He flinched and looked back. A girl had walked up behind him. “Didn’t hear you comin’,” he said.

  She yawned and stretched her arms. “Sorry.”

  She put her arm around his waist and laid her head on his chest. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s get in your car and just drive somewhere far away.”

  Buck hugged her, looked up to the trees, and sighed.

  What the hell should I do with my life?

  Chapter 21

  Aaron sat bolt upright in bed.

  My owl friend is loud this morning. It must be near the house.

  Aaron looked around inside, then turned off the house alarm and peeked out the back door, his fists clenched.

  All right, machete man. Bring it on.

  He ventured out and was swallowed by a thick fog that blanketed his yard and house, and he saw and heard nothing as he tiptoed up to the fence.

  Figures emerged from the fog in front of him. “Whoa, I didn’t know you were here,” he said to the Belkin cattle. Some of the cows looked at him but made no noise. Aaron stood at the fence for several minutes and watched the cattle move around at times. Funny, I can’t hear you.

  A chill rippled down his back. He turned and hurried back to the house.

  It was just past dawn on Saturday, and his fingers twitched on the steering wheel as he drove to the hospital. My head is in a fog. I must be really short of sleep.

  He left the radio off and kept his car window open halfway to feel the wind on his face. Every few seconds, his eyes went to the rearview mirror.

  Standing just inside the entrance doors to the hospital, Aaron surveyed the parking lot. No one had followed him.

  He found Cristal’s room and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Marley said.

  Aaron pushed the door open. Forrester’s not here.

  “How is she?” he asked Marley.

  “The same. She slept all night.”

  Aaron studied Cristal and her monitor. “Her vital signs are holding. That’s good.”

  “The nurse said everything is stable.”

  Aaron touched Marley’s shoulder. “Have you heard anything about Forrester?”

  “No.”

  “That can be good.”

  “I know. That’s the way I look at it.”

  “Your eyes are red. Now you’re the one who looks tired,” Aaron said.

  Marley smiled. “I’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll watch her. Do you want to get some sleep?”

  “No, I can’t sleep just yet.”

  “I understand. I’ll check on you later. If she’s doing well, I might go to my first rodeo today with Grant Belkin.”

  Marley looked up at Aaron. “Your first rodeo? That’s great. You should go.”

  “Cristal is in good hands.”

  “I know.”

  Aaron stared at her. “Are you sure—”?

  “I’m okay, and I really appreciate your coming to see us.”

  He turned and left the room.

  As Aaron inspected the grass and landscaping around his house that afternoon, small blotches of sweat popped up across the front of his shirt. He was crouching in his yard when Grant Belkin’s pickup truck pulled into his driveway. He trotted to the truck and climbed into the passenger seat. “How’s the little girl?” Grant said.

  “Wow, word gets around.”

  “It’s a small town.”

  “I just called Marley at the hospital. Cristal is stable. It’s just watch and wait now and let the antibiotics do their thing.”

  Grant’s truck bounced down a two-lane road.

  “Marley is a good mother to Cristal,” Grant said.

  “She’s married to a fool Lothario, though.”

  Grant looked at Aaron. “She’ll be all right.”

  Aaron’s brow furrowed. How can he possibly be sure of that?

  After about thirty minutes, Grant pulled into a parking area near an arena with bleachers. A sign in front of the arena said “Tri-County PRCA Rodeo.”

  They stepped out of the truck. “What’s PRCA?” Aaron said.

  “It means the rodeo is sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association.”

  “I guess that’s good?”

  “Yep.”

  They tromped toward the arena. “Something smells good,” Aaron said.

  “That’s the barbecue cook-off. It’s a serious competition. We’ll have some later.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Just inside the arena entrance, Grant bought two beers and led Aaron to seats in the center of the bleachers and two rows back from the arena fence.

  “We’re sittin’ above the chutes where the bulls and broncs come out,” Grant said.

  “So these are primo seats.”

  “I like ‘em. We can also watch the cowboys gettin’ ready to hold on for dear life.”

  After a short while, a cowboy on horseback rode into the arena holding an American flag.

  Grant stood, removed his hat, and placed his hand over his heart. Aaron followed suit, along with everyone else in the arena. As the cowboy circled the infield, a lady with a southern drawl belted out the national anthem. Grant and Aaron sang along.

  As Aaron looked around the bleachers at the people singing to the flag, goose bumps popped up on the back of his neck. I can’t help but feel patriotic in here.

  At one point, horses were loaded into the chutes. “Saddle bronc ridin’,” Grant said. “This is fun stuff.”

  Aaron watched cowboy after cowboy climb onto the fidgety horses. When a rider was secured on his horse and ready to romp, he signaled and the chute door was flung open, with the horse bursting out onto the arena dirt surface and bucking in circles with all its might. Dirt clouds billowed up from the horse’s hooves as the rider tried his best to anticipate and blend with the jolting motion of the powerful animal below him. If all went well for the cowboy, for a few glorious seconds the horse and rider became one.

  Aaron began to see the action in slow motion. It’s like two wrestlers locked in a battle to the finish.

  “I think I’m getting used to the smells of cattle and horse country,” Aaron said as he sipped another beer.

  Grant chuckled. “You just might grow to love it.”

  Aaron clapped and hollered along with the other spectators at the barrel racing event, in which riders guided their horses in straightaway sprints followed by tight rounding of barrels placed in a triangle formation in the arena.

  “These cowgirls are good with their horses. Is this mainly a women’s event?” Aaron said.

  “It usually is. It’s where the cowgirls shine.”

  “Even the horses seem to enjoy it.”

  “They do. It’s in their nature to run.” Grant adjusted his cowboy hat and cocked his head at Aaron. “Are you lookin’ for somebody?”

  “What?”

  “You keep studyin’ the crowd.”

  “Oh. It’s just all new to me.”

  “It’s a unique culture.”

  “The crowd seems noisier now,” Aaron said.

  “That’s because bull ridin’ is next.”

 
; “So that’s even more exciting than the other events?”

  “The most dangerous eight seconds in any sport.”

  “Eight seconds? That doesn’t sound like a long time.”

  “Ask a cowboy. He’ll tell you eight seconds seems like an eternity on the toughest bulls. A lot of cowboys don’t last near that long.”

  They watched bull after bull kick and spin and try to hurl the riders into flight.

  Aaron turned to Grant. “These bulls are pure muscle. It hurts me to watch this. I think my back would break.”

  “They’re bred for this. The bull owners are mighty happy if their bulls win the battles.”

  Only two cowboys lasted the eight seconds.

  “The rodeo clowns are great athletes, too,” Aaron said.

  “They have to be quick, for sure, and they know the animals. The rodeo clowns save the cowboys a lot of injuries.”

  After the last bull, Aaron heard a commotion in the bleachers to his far right. He saw two men yelling and pushing each other.

  Grant leaned toward Aaron. “That’s Forrester Brighton, Marley’s husband. He’s with his new girlfriend.”

  Aaron spotted a woman with blond, curly hair. Her curls bounced up and down as she struggled to keep the two men apart.

  “I guess Forrester is the one to her right? The tall guy?” Aaron said.

  “That’s him.”

  “Who’s the other guy?”

  “Might be her ex-boyfriend.”

  “He looks mighty angry with Forrester.”

  Other men ran up to pull the combatants apart. While being escorted away, the second man yelled and pointed his finger at Forrester, who threw his head back and laughed.

  Aaron looked at Grant. “If that guy had carried a gun, I’ll bet he would’ve used it on Forrester.”

  “Maybe not here.”

  “Or hire someone to do it for him later.”

  “It’s hard for a hit man to find work around these parts.”

  “You mean, it’s do-it-yourself?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m thinking about getting a gun,” Aaron said. “Do you have one?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t hunt?”

  “No.”